


Minstrel's Song

by Isis



Category: Knight's Fee - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:36:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herluin at Tenchebrai, and afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minstrel's Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tryfanstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta-readers, who made this a much better story.

"So it is de Bellême's minstrel," said Sir Philip de Braose. The flames from the fire in the field-hearth of his pavilion lit the broad planes of his face from below, throwing his eyes into deep shadow and shading his expression into an unreadable mask. "I wonder that you did not flee the field with your master."

There was scorn in de Braose's voice, but Herluin paid it no mind; Robert de Bellême was many things, but he was not a coward. If Robert had fled, it had been for strategic advantage. A supplicant who came of his own will – so he had heard Robert had done – would be treated better than a captive.

As he was a captive; de Braose's captive. He raised his eyes to his captor and shrugged. "Perhaps I am something of a fool, then." 

"We must see that you are well bestowed," continued de Braose. "Robert de Bellême’s own minstrel should fetch a good ransom."

"I doubt it, do you know. They tell me that de Bellême has come in to make his submission, and will of a surety be stripped even of his Norman possessions, now that Henry is Lord of Normandy. Not, I fear me, the moment to be indulging in luxuries such as the ransom of a mere minstrel."

This was not quite what he had heard, nor even what he believed entirely. De Bellême's wealth was vast, and anyway he might yet keep his Norman lands. And after so many years together, de Bellême was in some ways just as foolish about him, or so Herluin hoped. He had not taken up the sword on Tenchebrai field out of any great conviction, and he would rather not languish in the King's prison.

Something tugged at his memory; he remembered walking on the dyke along Arundel Castle with Sir Everard d'Aguillon, long years ago. Sir Everard had asked a similar question to what de Braose had asked – why it was he stayed with de Bellême, despite his villainy – and he had answered it with similar words. He supposed it was no less true, now. 

That had been the night he had given over the Imp into Sir Everard's hands, and it occurred to him that perhaps the boy was about this very camp. He'd be of an age now to be squire to Richard's son – Sir Everard's grandson – who was doubtless now a knight in de Braose's train. 

De Braose spoke, a harsh thrust, and Herluin parried; he preferred this sort of fighting, with words rather than swords. But then de Braose's eyes went to the tent opening. Herluin looked as well, and surely God in his heaven was laughing, for there stood the boy, his pale hair dirty with mud and blood, haggard eyes fixed upon him. It was the Imp – no longer a half-starved dog-boy but a battle-blooded young man – and Herluin felt nearly ashamed that after so many years their meeting should come about in this way.

He said so, after a pause, and it seemed to him de Braose sneered with satisfaction before beckoning the boy forward.

"You know why I sent for you?"

"Yes." It was quietly said, in a voice that was no longer a boy's voice. "Bevis told me – before he died."

Bevis – Richard's son. It was a blow he felt in the depths of his chest. He had heard of Sir Everard's death some years past, and had mourned quietly on his own; but if Bevis were dead it meant the end of the d'Aguillon family, the end of his own small connection to that which was good and bright and steadfast, out of de Bellême's dark orbit. There was only the Imp, who had known him for a matter of weeks, as a child, long ago. Doubtless he had long since forgotten the time when he had slept at Herluin's feet and jumped to serve him with the eagerness of a puppy.

But it seemed the puppy was now a knight; and de Braose would give him Dean for a year, at least. Herluin felt an absurd sort of pride in this, for had he not set the boy on this path when he'd given him to Sir Everard? It had been a good thing to do – as much as he'd wanted to keep the Imp with him – as much as the child had protested that he had wanted to stay.

"It is the custom, I know, to make some gift to the Church or to the poor, for the first act of one's knighthood," said Randal, and his voice was steady and solemn. Calmly he met de Braose's eye. "May I, instead, pay the ransom for a friend?"

Mercy of God, thought Herluin, and he turned his head toward the boy in surprise. The Imp – no, he was in heart as well as title Sir Randal, now, had grown to his name in truth – had not forgotten him after all.

It was an offer from the heart, the sort of impulsive and purely noble gesture that Richard would have made. The boy may not have been a d'Aguillon born, but his time at Dean had clearly instilled that essential goodness that seemed to be a d'Aguillon trait. It almost seemed, as he covertly studied Randal, that he held himself as Richard had; that though he looked nothing like the tall, dark d'Aguillons, he had something of them in his manner.

But it was a ridiculous offer, and Herluin knew it. Randal did not have the money, and to borrow it against Dean would be taking on an enormous, crushing debt. He did not expect de Braose to take it; but neither did he expect de Braose's counter-offer. 

"I will give you the minstrel to do with as you choose," de Braose said evenly, "or I will give you Dean. The choice is yours."

Minstrel or manor: a cruel, clever choice to set the boy. It was a bold move in a game of chess that was in some sense no different from the one he had played Hugh Goch for Randal's life, all those years ago. Only this time, it was his own life at stake.

And it was Randal who made the winning move; and it was evident to Herluin – perhaps it was evident to everyone – that it was done not just out of kindness, or goodness, or even loyalty; it was done out of love.

* * *

"Why did you protect me?" asked Randal suddenly. It was late, very late in the night. They had been sitting by the fire in silence for some time, letting the muffled noises of a mostly-sleeping camp waft over them with the wood-smoke. Before falling silent, Randal had told him of Sir Everard d'Aguillon's last days, and of his death, in quiet, measured sentences that did not conceal his obvious pain at the memory. He must have been thinking on his first days with d'Aguillon, then, and on how he had come to Dean; how he had come to leave Arundel.

Herluin stretched his long legs before him. "I never cared overmuch for Hugh Goch. And perhaps it was that you reminded me of myself, when I was smaller than a dog and lonelier than a cat."

"You! Smaller than a dog?"

"Tall trees come from small seeds! I was small enough to fit in a basket, when the monks found me on the doorstep of Bec Abbey. Did you think you were the only motherless boy in the world?"

Randal shook his head. "I thought you a monk when first I saw you."

"Hy my! I should have made a poor monk, though the black brothers did their best to turn me into one. They named me for their founder, a most esteemed knight; no doubt they expected me to follow in his holy path." He sighed dramatically. "I fear I was a disappointment to them."

"It is only what God expects that matters," Randal said softly. "And He rarely chooses to share His plans in advance."

He was thinking of himself and Bevis, that was clear. He stared into the fire, his face sombre, and again neither spoke for some time. Two men walked by on their way to their sleeping-places, yawning widely and loudly. Herluin reached for another stick and set it in the flames, watching as it crackled and spat sparks into the air like a thing alive.

After a while, Randal said: "Was it so for you, when Richard d'Aguillon died?"

"I was already bound to de Bellême then, and did not find out right away. Richard and I were on opposing sides of the battlefield then, you see." But there had been pain, and a hollowness in his chest that had not passed for weeks.

"I saw him fall," said Randal. His voice was low and cracked with misery. "I sat with him as he died." It was Bevis he was thinking of again; Bevis, whom he had loved. It was writ clear upon his open features, that dark-tanned Saxon skin which even by firelight showed the flush on his cheeks. The Imp had grown into a well-favoured young man, broad-shouldered and almost tall, but he had not yet learned to raise a mask to hide his heart's yearnings.

Herluin, of course, had perfected that art long ago. But Randal had seen through it, else he would not have asked about Richard; or perhaps it was just that being in Randal's presence made him want to rise to meet that honesty, to admit to what was in his heart.

For Herluin had loved Richard, who had come to be fostered at Brionne and learned his lessons in the abbey school. They had studied together, had ridden together, and when one stole a sweetcake from the kitchens, they shared it out half and half – and the beating after, as well. Richard had listened to his songs, picked out on the abbey's fourth-best harp; Richard had begged the abbot to let Herluin ride with him to Dean for a sweet summer month, a glorious month Herluin still remembered with great fondness.

But then Herluin had met Robert de Bellême. Glittering, self-assured, wicked, with great wealth and titles and aspirations to more of each; the son of a country knight with a minor fief could not compare. He had clapped his hands at Herluin's song and whispered dark and delicious things into his ear. When de Bellême had offered him a place, it was as though a golden door had opened. It would have been folly not to step through.

So he had lined his sleeves with yellow, and played his gilded harp, and Richard d'Aguillon became a soft, sweet memory. In those first years, though they often stopped at Arundel and even at Bramber, as they travelled among Robert's vast estates, he had been too intoxicated with Robert to think of Dean; afterward, of course, there had been no reason.

No reason, until he'd given the Imp into Sir Everard's keeping. Then there had been many times he had considered stopping at Dean; Robert would have raised an amused eyebrow, but would have given him leave. But only two things there were that could come of it: either the boy would cling to his legs again, and beg to come back to Normandy with him, or he would find that the boy had forgotten him entirely. If it were the first, it would be a hard thing on all of them, and as for the second…well, de Bellême's minstrel was not as heartless as his mocking laughter led people to believe.

"I find," said Herluin softly into the silence, "that I am after all pleased you did not forget me." It was the closest he could come to thanking Randal for ransoming him.

Randal looked up at him then, and when he spoke, his voice was thick. "I could never forget you. I will never –" and then he swallowed, and looked back at the fire, and all was silent again but the crackle of flames. But his open, honest face showed the same emotion as when he had spoken of Bevis, and Herluin had to look away as well, lest Randal see it mirrored on his own.

* * *

He left the English camp in the grey dawn. Mist shrouded the tents and the old apple trees, and when he finally dared to look back, he only saw vague shapes, nothing to remind him at all of what he was leaving behind. Yet it was some distance to Bellême, where he expected to find Robert; a long ride, during which he could not keep Randal out of his thoughts.

"Come with me back to Dean," Randal had said, and it had taken a great deal of strength not to reach out and take his hand. It was true, as he had replied, that he would do nought but grow moss, for Dean was far from the glittering life he was accustomed to with Robert de Bellême. But his life had glittered for many years, and life with Randal would have other joys, smaller yet perhaps more piercing delights.

He had not imagined the yearning in Randal's eyes. Yet it had only been days since Bevis's death; to Randal the wound was still raw, the loss still felt with every heartbeat. And Dean had just become his, a grave responsibility. Perhaps it was only the reassurance of an old friend at his shoulder that he was looking for. And that would make it more uncomfortable, afterward.

And…he could not leave Robert, though he could not say whether it was out of loyalty, or love, or simply habit. Their binding went both ways, now, and they were as settled in their bonds as any old man and his crone, after a lifetime together encompassing both love and hate and everything in between.

So he rode to Bellême, and as he had expected Robert was there, with those of his men who had not been killed or captured. He looked up at Herluin's coming. "I had heard you had been taken."

"La, there are many things one hears after a battle."

Robert looked at him for a long moment, then laughed, tossing back his great mane of chestnut-coloured hair. "True enough. And I suppose you have heard many things as well."

Herluin shrugged. "Nothing I care to make into a song." 

"Robert Curthose was captured, Mortain and Edgar also. I escaped by the mere grace of God." His mouth quirked into a half-smile, and Herluin knew he did not expect any man present to believe it had been divine reprieve. "But my lands in England are forfeit."

"Then we will stay in Normandy. I like it better than England, anyway."

"Normandy now is Henry's. But we will be welcome in King Philip's court."

So they fled to France, one step ahead of Henry's men. Paris was elegant, dazzling, filled with bored noblemen who yearned for songs they'd not heard a dozen times before. Herluin smiled, and bowed, and played his harp sweetly, and sang verses about lustful maids and bumbling barons to laughter and applause. As he had said to Randal, life with de Bellême was never dull. 

But to his own surprise, sometimes he found himself wishing for dullness. He had always known Robert had a black heart; he was vicious to those he hated, and sometimes to those whom he loved. In Normandy he had vented his cruelty against King Henry's supporters, but in France, though he threw himself into plots and intrigues, the only targets available for his immediate amusement were his own men.

It occurred to him, now and again, that he might leave. Robert, of course, would not let him go so easily; but he might leave, nonetheless. He wondered whether Randal still thought of him from time to time. Randal had said he would never forget him; but Randal was still young. 

And then Robert's mood would turn merry again, and Paris again shone brightly, and Dean was so very far away….

Philip died not long after they came to court, though he was only two years older than Robert, and his son Louis – why, he could not be much older than Randal, Herluin realised at his coronation – was easily drawn into de Bellême's intrigues. Louis did not like Robert Curthose, the Duke of Normandy, but he liked his brother Henry less. Six years after Tenchebrai, Louis sent de Bellême to Henry to negotiate the Duke's release.

They rode out from Paris on a chill November morning. The last leaves still clung to the spreading lindens and chestnuts, but it was altogether a bleak day, with a lowering grey sky. 

"A song to cheer our hearts would be welcome," said one of de Bellême's men-at-arms, casting a glance toward the soft leather bag slung across Herluin's saddle.

"My harp sings poorly in the cold," said Herluin. "Perhaps when we are warm in Henry's court."

But when they arrived it was to chains and leg-irons, and no warmth at all. Henry had charges already prepared: de Bellême had failed to attend Henry's court when summoned, had built castles where he had no right, and, most damnably, had conspired against Henry's interests. In vain Herluin pointed out – most reasonably, he thought – that _he_ had not been summoned, nor was he a stonemason, and therefore had nothing to do with any castles. As for working against the interests of the King; well, they were only songs, and he was only a minstrel.

They were confined only a few days before being brought before Henry – all but de Bellême, of course, who had been the sole real target of the king's ire. One by one, de Bellême's men went down on bended knee and swore renewed fealty to King Henry, or at least swore not to oppose him further; one by one, each was dismissed to Normandy or to France, as each man chose. Then it was Herluin's turn.

"De Bellême's minstrel," said Henry. "What choose you?"

"I will bend my knee to you, my lord," said Herluin, and did so, in a flourish of black and yellow. "But I would stay in England for a time, if I might."

"Do you think to take the place of my Rahere, then? He tells me he wishes to trade his harp for a prayer-book. I have heard much that is good about your playing, but I tell you, minstrel, I will have no seditious songs sung about me in my court."

It was only half an offer; yet for a moment, he was tempted. Henry's court was a fine place for a minstrel, as glittering and as rife with intrigue as Robert de Bellême's had been. But he had been more than mere minstrel to Robert, over the years, and there was something very unpleasant in the idea of being a spoil of war.

Besides, he had made his choice. He had thought on many things as he sat in King Henry's prison. Long ago he had told Randal that he changed his mind as often as a swallow changes course; there had been many times over the past six years he had changed it, and changed it back again. But now he would finally take wing.

"If you forbid me my seditious songs, I fear there will be nought left to sing," he said in a light, lazy voice. "Na na, my lord, my fingers grow weary and my voice tired. It is in my heart to leave kings and barons to their own glory, and but sing quietly for a friend."

There was one more thing to do after King Henry gave him leave to go, and that was to see Robert. The stone cell was not luxurious, but it was comfortable enough, for a prison.

Robert sat in one of two plain wooden chairs that were the only furniture in the cell other than a low bed. He looked up as Herluin stepped in. "You will go to King Louis and tell him what has happened?"

"Not I, my lord. Two of your men are already on their way; as for me, I shall be leaving your service."

"Ah. I was expecting something of the sort." His mouth twisted into a thin and bitter smile. "So I am to be deserted now, after so many years."

Many years, indeed. Robert's dark chestnut hair was threaded through with grey, and the sharp lines in his face had become cut ever deeper. Why, he must be near sixty now, thought Herluin, and it was an unsettling thought that brought with it a reminder of his own mortality, his own passage through time.

He wondered whether it was possible that Randal still wanted him. Herluin himself was only eight years younger than Robert; Randal would not yet be thirty. Six years had passed since their parting. Perhaps he was married now. Then again, Robert had been married, and that had not made much difference.

He folded his long body as gracefully as he could at Robert's feet. He felt the protest of his bones; yes, he too was getting old. He laid his head against Robert's knee. "It is not that I would desert you, my lord. It is only that I have no heart to be put in a cage."

It was somewhat of a lie, and yet also it was something of the truth. But he had come to realise that it had been a cage he'd been in all these years, a cage constructed of the tangled threads of complicity and affection and passion, and the thrill he got from balancing on life's dangerous edge. But with Robert locked away – the King planned to keep him there for life, or so the whispers told it – the bars of his own cage now stood open. He was not so much a fool that he would not walk through.

"No," murmured Robert, and Herluin felt a hand pass gently through his hair. "You may go, if you wish. Although I would hope it would not be to Henry."

Herluin laughed as he rose and sat in the other chair. He felt oddly light-headed and peaceful, as though he'd confessed and been granted absolution. "Not Henry, no. But you have met the man to whom I go – he is sworn to de Braose of Bramber."

" _Sworn_ to de Braose? Why, if it were the Baron de Braose himself I would say your fortunes had tumbled! You go from the household of the wealthiest man in England and Normandy, to the manor of a mere fief-knight?"

"I go from the household of King Henry's prisoner," said Herluin blandly.

Robert snorted, a short, harsh bark of laughter. "True enough! But I am amazed you think I would know one of de Braose's liege-men. What is his name?"

"My lord would not know his name. But you met him many years ago, at Arundel, when he dropped a half-eaten fig onto your brother's horse's nose."

"The dog-boy? The Saxon brat you won of my brother in a game of chess?"

"The same. Only he is Sir Randal now. He won his knighthood on the field at Tenchebrai." His knighthood and his manor, and the heart of a minstrel. 

"Pray tell me this is a jest."

"So it is," agreed Herluin. "It is God's jest, that he pleases to change our fortunes, up for down and down for up. What a thing is life!"

"What a thing, indeed," said Robert, shaking his head. "Very well, minstrel. Keep you well with Sir Dog-boy."

"Oh, I shall," said Herluin, his mouth cracking into a slow, crooked smile. And he took his leave of de Bellême, and set out on the road to Dean.

* * *

Rain had fallen the day before, dampening the dust and dead leaves on the ground. It had muffled the sound of his horse's hooves as he rode through the woods; he himself had been disinclined to whistle or sing to break the hush. But as he passed by Bramber Castle the last of the drizzle ended, and by the time he had forded the stream and was winding up the valley, the clouds had begun to break, blue sky peeking out between them.

The ground was wet and slightly steamy as he swung off his horse under the bare-branched fruit trees that lay before the hall. It looked much as he remembered it, though here and there he noticed new beams that must have replaced rotted ones, and new paint on the door-sill. He hesitated for a moment at the door, then told himself he was being foolish. If he was not welcome here, he could always return to Normandy, or to France. The brothers at Bec Abbey might yet be pleased to see him…

"The Lord of Dean? He is up on the crest of Long Down, there," said the serving-woman, and she pointed up to where the curving ridge met the sky off in the distance, toward a dark spot which may or may not have been a man. "He often sits there when the weather is fine, and also when it is not."

Herluin made a long, sweeping bow to her, and she giggled. Then he picked his way through the scattered byres and thatched bothies, up the valley toward the ridge, and began to climb.

He could see Randal sitting on a folded sheepskin cloak, looking out over the deep curve of slope that lay in the hollow protected by the ridge, where sheep grazed under the watchful eye of a shepherd and his dogs. The dogs barked at Herluin's approach, but the shepherd quieted them with a word, nodding at Herluin as though he had been expected. 

Randal had risen to his feet as Herluin climbed the last steep slope; now he stood on the broad ridge-crest with his back turned, apparently gazing out over the rolling sea of oak forest to the north. Perhaps, thought Herluin, he had waited too long.

Two steps, then a third, and he stood behind Randal and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Here is your minstrel," he murmured, "to do with as you choose."

He heard an indrawn breath, and then Randal turned. The years had darkened the barley-blond of his hair and cut deep lines across his brow and around the edges of his eyes, but had not dimmed the yearning evident in his face as their eyes met. 

"Herluin," Randal said softly. Putting his own hand on Herluin's shoulder, he drew him close. "I did not dare hope to ever see you here."

"But as you see, I am here." He could not hold his usual light, mocking tone, not with Randal's hand on his shoulder and his body warm against the chill wind, not with the stirrings of joy he felt deep within his heart. But no matter; he needed no mask, not here. "Have you still a place for an old minstrel?"

Randal's smile almost hurt to look at, it was so shining and bright. "If you do not mind the dull life on a down-land manor."

"I find there are yet songs to sing about growing moss," said Herluin. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Knight's Fee_ , and this story, are set against real events and incorporate real people. The events concerning Robert de Bellême are all real, including his diplomatic mission in 1112 and his subsequent imprisonment (for the rest of his days) by King Henry. He was considered to be a great villain by his contemporary, the historian Orderic Vitalis, so I don't feel I've slandered him!
> 
> The backstories I've invented for Sutcliff's original characters are based on both clues from the book and from history. When I looked up Bec Abbey, where Herluin says he 'learned his book' together with Richard d'Aguillon, I discovered it was founded not long before by a Norman knight also named Herluin; I figured that couldn't be a coincidence. Sir Everard says that his son Richard 'was killed', and working from the likely year of Bevis's birth of 1083, it seems reasonable that he died in the Rebellion of 1088, an early attempt by Mowbray and the Montgomery family (the brothers Hugh and Robert, and their father, and possibly another brother) to put Robert Curthose on the throne in place of William Rufus.
> 
> Finally: the first scene of this story is a remix of the first scene of Chapter 17 of the original, and all the dialogue after the first three paragraphs is verbatim from the text.


End file.
